


After the End: John Warren

by gracefultree



Series: 2020: John Warren [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, M/M, but then they get happy, everyone is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9336320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: Harold has lost John, and his world falls apart.  No one quite understands how difficult it is to lose one's partner... even when one has a fiancee to return to.





	1. After the End

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story in this fandom, and of course I have to do a fix-it. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold's life after the defeat of Samaritan.

Grace had never been happier in her entire life than when she looked up from her painting to find out if the feeling of being watched was real and saw her long-lost and presumed-dead fiance Harold standing a few feet away from her. It was better than when they first made love. Better than when he asked her to marry him.

It was three weeks before they made love, and Harold started crying halfway through and they had to stop. She tried to comfort him as best she could, but he wouldn’t talk or tell her anything. Eventually, she figured out that his limp and other injuries caused him a lot of pain, though she suspected there was more to his tears than pain. 

He still loved her. She knew that and believed it, and loved him in return, but he was no longer the man she remembered, no longer the man she’d been holding in her heart with the balm of memory and loss to smooth the edges. 

She never did find out what he’d been doing when he’d been missing. “Trying to correct a mistake,” was all he’d ever say. 

He barely spoke anymore, except to discuss food or literature or clothes. His passion for good food and expensive clothes hadn’t changed, she was glad to see, and it seemed he had an income, or at least money, since he wasn’t working. He never talked about his feelings, and as the weeks became months, she decided that he must be depressed about something. 

“I’ve given up so much in my life,” he answered when she asked. “I’m glad I still have you,” he’d add, kissing her. 

Their physical relationship almost never went beyond kissing or holding each other. 

It took over a year for Harold to be willing to go back to New York with her, despite all of Grace’s logical reasons and her more impassioned pleas. She missed New York terribly, she told him. She loved Italy, loved Rome, but hadn’t wanted to live there forever. She was a New Yorker, and she’d always thought he was, too.

Once he made the decision to go, however, nothing seemed to stand in his way and he made the arrangements in under an hour. She looked on as he typed on his laptop, dozens of screens open at once, awed that her fiancé could do so much now that he couldn’t do years ago. He’d always been hesitant about computers before. Now code flashed across the screen so fast that she could barely see the letters, but he seemed to be able to follow it all. 

They arrived at JFK in the morning, and all of a sudden Harold’s personality seemed to change. He became more decisive, stronger, no longer the timid nerd she’d fallen in love with. No longer the depressed man she’d gotten to know in Italy. He walked towards Baggage Claim with a determined gait, even with the limp he’d never fully explained. (An accident, he’d said, not willing to elaborate further, nor had he been willing to talk about the surgery scars that must have followed, or the wounds that to Grace’s inexperienced eye looked like they were from bullets.) Bypassing the luggage carousals, he made a beeline for a uniformed driver holding a sign that said “Mr. Wren.” She followed, bemused. 

“Harold?” she asked, catching up to him as he handed the driver their luggage tags. 

“Hmm?” he responded, turning. “Oh, sorry. I should have mentioned that my real name isn’t Martin,” he said without offering another explanation. She followed him following the driver, arriving at an elegant black town car. The driver held open the door for her. 

“Have all the arrangements been taken care of?” Harold asked the driver. 

“Yes, Mr. Wren. Would you like to stop by your hotel first or…?” 

“No, that can wait. You have the itinerary?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Harold, what’s going on?” Grace asked as soon as they were under way. 

“My name isn’t Harold Martin,” he answered. “I have over two dozen aliases I’ve used over the years.” 

She blinked slowly, confused. “But why?” 

He sighed and shifted in his seat to lessen the tension in his back. “I made a mistake when I was seventeen. I’ve essentially been on the run ever since.” 

“Oh.” 

“You’re not going to ask what I did?” he wondered. 

“No, I told you a long time ago that I wouldn’t. You’ll tell me when you want to.” She bit her lip, because she wanted to know. She wanted to know who this man was, because he wasn’t depressed any longer, or at least, not that she could see. But she held her tongue, hoping he’d tell her eventually. She hoped. 

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Grace,” he said softly. 

When they arrived at the cemetery, Grace understood the four bouquets of flowers that had been waiting on the backseat of the car. Harold got out, selected one bunch of flowers, and started walking down the aisle. As she’d done at the airport, she followed. 

“Nathan,” Harold said, indicating the grave. He bent down to place the flowers against the headstone. “He was my best friend for 30 years,” he explained, straightening. 

“You used to talk about him,” Grace replied. “You haven’t mentioned him once since you’ve been back.” 

“He died,” Harold said simply. 

Grace let her eyes roam over the headstone. Nathan Ingram. He’d died — “He was the friend you were meeting at the ferry,” she whispered in sudden understanding. “He was —“ 

“The reason I went into hiding in 2010,” Harold interrupted. “His death made me realize you wouldn’t be safe if I stayed with you. In order to protect you I had to die, to disappear.” He let out a long breath and addressed the headstone. “Nathan, this is Grace. I’m sorry I never introduced you properly, but… Well, you understand, don’t you?” He rested a hand on the small of her back. They stood in silence for several minutes before Harold turned to her. 

“You don’t mind if we make a few more stops, do you?” 

“Of course not, Harold. Whatever you need.” 

The second cemetery proved to be a police memorial, and he lead her to a simple grave for a Detective Joselyn Carter. Harold left the flowers and said a few words softly enough that she couldn’t hear them. She suspected one of the phrases was ‘thank you,’ and another was ‘I’m sorry.’ 

The third cemetery they visited had no names on the stone markers, simply the dates of death. How Harold could pick a particular headstone from all the rest baffled her, but she followed him as he unerringly weaved through he paths to the grave he wanted. He placed the flowers on the ground. 

“Her name was Samantha Groves,” he said. “But she went by Root. The first time we met, she kidnapped me,” he continued. “I couldn’t eat apples for six months. But in the end she became a friend. One of the very few people I could trust.” His lips quirked up at the edges into a half-smile. “I think she would laugh that I bring apple blossoms to her grave.” 

“She’s not there, you know,” a female voice said behind them. Grace started, but Harold didn’t seem surprised. “They cremated her after they took out the cochlear implant.” 

“I am well aware, Ms. Shaw,” Harold replied. “I still thought it was appropriate to pay my respects.” He turned to face her. “Ms. Shaw, you remember my fiancé, Grace?” 

“Are you ever going to marry her?” Shaw asked. She gave Grace a quick once-over, reminding Grace of someone she’d met once. “Cause I gotta say—“ 

“All in good time,” Harold said. 

“I know you,” Grace said. “From the bridge. You know —“ 

“Root was there, too,” Shaw interrupted. “I guess he hasn’t told you about that, has he? That he was the one they traded for you?” 

Grace looked to Harold, stunned. “That was you?” 

Harold had the sense to look away, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I couldn’t let them have you, couldn’t let them hurt you because of me. That’s why I left after the bombing. That’s why I sent you to Italy.” 

“Harold —“ 

“We have one more stop. Ms. Shaw, will you accompany us?” 

“Might as well,” she answered. She walked ahead to the car and climbed in when the driver held the door open. Grace and Harold followed her in. Ms. Shaw and Harold spoke for most of the rest of the trip, clipped, discrete sentences delivered in code that Grace couldn’t follow. Why did they keep talking about numbers? Harold wasn’t a mathematician, and it certainly didn’t seem like Ms. Shaw was one. 

“I’m glad to hear you’ve been kept busy,” Harold said as the car pulled up outside a fourth cemetery. “I would hate to contemplate what you’d do with unlimited free time.” 

A stout man met them at the gate and nodded to Grace. “Are you back in the city for a while?” he asked Harold. 

“Don’t worry, Detective,” Harold replied with amusement. “I haven’t decided to take on my old job again.” 

“That’s good. You deserve a break, after everything,” the detective said. He fell into step with Harold, walking at his altered pace, something that had taken Grace a few months to learn how to do. Clearly both of these people know Harold since after his accident. “Shaw said you’d been to see Root, Carter and that Ingram fellow. You save Wonderboy for last?” 

Harold froze. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” he whispered, his voice pained. 

“Sorry. Force of habit.” 

Harold nodded silently and continued to a grave. Grace moved to follow, but the detective held out an arm to stop her. “Best let him have some time,” he murmured. “John was a good friend.” She looked over and saw Harold gently putting the bouquet of blood orange blossoms on the grass at the bottom of a tombstone. 

With a cry of pain and sorrow, Harold collapsed to his knees in the dirt. Grace jumped forward to help him, but the detective’s grip kept her in place. She struggled against him, but Ms. Shaw stepped between her and Harold. 

“Leave him,” Ms. Shaw hissed. Behind her, Harold was on his hands and knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Grace tried to get away again, but suddenly Ms Shaw had a gun in her hand. “I don’t feel things the way most people do, so I won’t feel guilty if I have to shoot you, but Harold would be upset, so I’m gonna give you one last warning: Let him grieve in peace.” 

Grace nodded hurriedly, terrified by the sight of the gun. 

.

. 

. 

Harold didn't say a word to her when he’d finished crying and pulled himself together at John’s grave. He nodded silently to Ms. Shaw and the detective and walked past them all to the car, his face a mask of pain like she’d never seen. The knees of his trousers were soaked with mud, and his hands were dirty. 

At the hotel room, he took a long shower so hot that the steam escaped the closed bathroom door and made the parlor of their suite seem like a tropical jungle. Grace busied herself with unpacking, finding an extra garment bag in their room that neither of them had packed. Within it was a pair of bespoke suits of such a high quality that she couldn’t imagine how much they cost. She’d thought Harold had expensive tastes before, but this? 

“Harold, who was John?” Grace asked over dinner in the hotel restaurant. He’d remained quiet, except when ordering the food and wine, and she was getting nervous. She’d never known him to be this quiet, this secretive. It was so much more than when he’d come to her in Italy. 

Harold looked up. “He was my partner at a job that got him killed,” Harold answered simply. 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

“It killed Nathan and Detective Carter and Ms. Groves and nearly me, as well,” he continued. “Ms. Shaw still does the work, though I gave my notice last year.” He fidgeted with the silverware. “Detective Fusco helps, from time to time, and I believe she’s cultivated a number of assets to assist her.” 

“Assets?” 

“People, really. People with skills and knowledge to do what needs to be done to help.” He licked his lips and sipped the red wine in his glass. He made a face. “It’s sour,” he complained. 

“I didn’t know you had such a dangerous job,” she said. “You haven’t talked about what you did while —“ 

“I shouldn’t have come back,” Harold interrupted, closing his eyes tightly and taking a shuddering breath. He pushed his glasses up out of the way and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s too soon.” 

“It’s been a year,” Grace said softly. “Isn’t that enough time to mourn?” 

“At some level, I didn’t believe that he was dead,” Harold continued. “I saw the bullets hit him, I saw the blood, but I never saw his body, after. I guess I was thinking he’d turn up in Rome and —“ He broke off. “Or maybe surprise me when I went to his grave, saying, _‘Miss me, Harold? It takes more than a few bullets to stop me.’_ Wishful thinking, I suppose,” he finished softly. 

“You loved him,” Grace replied, suddenly understanding. “Didn’t you?” 

“More than I knew,” Harold answered. “More than I wanted to admit.” 

“Did you tell him?” 

Harold’s eyes were sharp with hurt. “I’ve been faithful to you since we met! Not once in all those years apart did I —” 

“Harold…” 

. 

. 

.


	2. Harold's reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold contemplating his new life in New York with Grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for depression. It gets better, though, in later chapters.

Harold returned to United Heritage Insurance as Harold Wren following an extended leave of absence. A surprising number of his aliases were still ‘alive,’ and he surreptitiously began refilling their information and lives, fleshing them out. Always cautious, it seemed like the best idea now that he was back in New York. It was good to be careful, and the reminder of who he’d been for all those years helped him reintegrate into a city that no longer held John.

Now it was Harold who needed a purpose, he mused one evening as he attended an event as Mr. Crane. Grace, as blissfully unaware of his activities as ever, thought he was working late. She’d long since accepted that he was a workaholic, their time in Rome an anomaly in his working life. 

He felt bad about deceiving her, but it was how they’d lived their lives before, and he didn’t have the energy to talk to her about what really happened, who he really was, his feelings about anything, the meagre explanation that first day in New York notwithstanding. He didn’t deserve her, he decided. Not that she’d stay with him if she knew who he was and what he’d done. 

“I’m sounding more and more like John,” he thought aloud as he decided on a suit for Mr. Partridge. “Not deserving happiness because of my own darkness.” 

Though he maintained a number of safe houses and provided a certain amount of financial backing to the Machine’s cause, he moved back into the apartment on Washington Square with Grace and tried to divorce himself from his former mission. The apartment had never been sold, even while he was on the run from Samaritan, and now that he was living with her, he wanted to rebuild that life. Occasionally Harold would receive calls from Shaw or Fusco, but he refused to be drawn into their dealings with the Machine beyond financial, only meeting with them on a social basis. 

Grace didn’t like dogs, but she allowed Harold to keep Bear, returned to him from Shaw, especially once he produced the (forged) service dog papers and vest. Shaw claimed to be heartbroken, but even she could see that Bear missed him and that Harold needed him on a more visceral level than she’d ever known him to. Harold started bringing Bear everywhere he went, and most of his aliases acquired a dog to compensate. Bear was getting on in years, and he’d only have a few more years working before he’d be able to retire to be the pet that Harold pretended he was with most of his aliases. Having the support of his dog seemed to ease some of his pain, though Grace couldn’t pinpoint how much or how often, just that he would be worse off without the dog on the occasional days when Shaw needed him for a mission or to refresh his military training. 

Not that Grace knew he was off working as a military dog when Shaw had him. Harold was sure she’d disapprove of a military dog in their house, however well-trained. She learned the basic Dutch commands, though, and discovered that Bear’s friendly disposition wasn’t feigned, despite his ferocious appearance when Harold felt anxious. He genuinely liked her. 

. 

. 

. 

Harold knew that Grace was unhappy and becoming more so as the months in New York became years. He also knew that he was to blame. 

That he felt even more unhappy didn’t matter to his guilt. 

He loved her, and wanted the best for her, but couldn’t even think of the possibility of leaving her again. He needed her. 

He needed _someone_ , at any rate, and she was closest to what he needed. 

When feeling the most depressed, he admitted to his selfishness in staying with her — in returning to her at all after what he’d done. It only made him hate himself and his decisions all the more. It was those days that he found himself in the park outside John’s loft, crying into Bear’s fur. The dog accepted his tears, whuffing softly to comfort him. 

Losing John had been yet one more blow to his already overly-damaged heart. Grace had returned — or, rather, he’d returned to her, — but she wasn’t John. He’d spent six years pining over her, wanting her, thinking she was the answer to his pain and sadness and loneliness — only to find that she was a poor substitute for his partner. John understood him in a way Grace never would. He knew everything, or at least as much as Harold was willing to share and a little more he’d been able to discover besides, and he _still_ wanted to be Harold’s friend. His partner in almost all things. 

John shared the darkness with him, while Grace tried to shine light into it. Harold didn’t kid himself thinking that her light was enough to banish his darkness. Grace was too good a person to know of the horrors Harold had endured, let alone the ones he’d perpetrated. Even midway through her life, she was too naive for who he was now. She’d been abducted, interrogated, sent away to a foreign country — but even those experiences hadn’t dulled her passion for life or faith in the innate goodness and kindness of humanity and every individual. 

He didn’t think his love for John was sexual. He’d never fantasized about him, never had a sexual dream about him, never had a stray thought about it — at least until he stood it front of John’s grave for the first time and felt like he’d lost his lover. 

He thought about Nathan, and that awkward pass he’d made in college, and how he’d shut down any feelings towards men immediately afterwards… he hadn’t allowed himself to consider that he had sexual feelings towards John. In retrospect, it was obvious nearly from the start of their association. 

It was dangerous to keep mementos, so he didn’t have a picture or video or soundbite, much as he desired one when he felt the most alone. 

He missed John’s voice, his quiet presence, his steadfast loyalty. 

He missed the teasing, the subtle flirting. 

Yes, John had probably been interested, if Harold had only noticed and allowed himself to respond. 

Once again, Harold’s cowardice kept him from even a little happiness, not aware of the potential until it was lost forever. 

. 

. 

. 


	3. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold encounters some old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for depression and suicidal thoughts.

Harold went out for a solitary dinner one evening in March, too sad to go home. He and Grace had an argument the night before — she wanted (yet again) to set a date for the wedding, he didn’t. It had escaped neither of their notices that they’d only made love a handful of times in the four years he’d been back in her life. Grace’s endless patience and understanding were beginning to wear thin in the face of his depression and indifference — and they both knew it.

He wouldn’t blame her for leaving him. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if she did. He’d take care of her, though. He’d see that she’d never want for anything. 

He took a book out of his briefcase, intending to read while he waited for his food. The reviews online had been favorable, and he was in the mood for the experience of ‘Midwestern Artisanal Creations.’ With Bear helping Ms. Shaw with a number, he was alone, and reading seemed to him like a safer pastime than thinking about how his relationship was slowly falling apart. There was a private party in the other half of the dining room, mostly men in suits with their wives or girlfriends. It sounded like a fundraiser of some kind, but he was beyond caring. 

He didn’t care about much these days. 

A woman brushed by his table, almost knocking over his wineglass in her haste. “Come _on_ ,” she called over her shoulder. “No one is going to notice you couldn’t find your cufflinks! We’re late!” 

“It doesn’t start for ten minutes,” an achingly familiar voice replied, and Harold’s head jerked up. 

“Yes, but they were hoping to use those ten minutes to throw their eligible daughters at you,” the woman said with a hint of amusement. 

“I don’t need a date. I have you,” the man protested, coming alongside Harold’s table. 

Harold looked. He saw. 

“I’m your _assistant_ , not your girlfriend!” she exclaimed, turning to face her employer. “You can’t stay single forever —“ 

Harold found himself standing, stepping in between the two people. “John?” he asked, hearing the hope in his own voice, the disbelief, feeling the heady rush of adrenaline in his blood. Could it really be —? He met the man’s eyes. “John!” he exclaimed, his friend’s identity confirmed. Before he could stop himself, he threw his arms around John and kissed him on the mouth. 

It only took two heartbeats for John to return the embrace and kiss him back. 

They parted reluctantly, their lips pulling slightly as they moved back. Harold blinked, opening his eyes to see an expression of confusion on John’s face. 

“You have me at a bit of a disadvantage,” John murmured, his voice sending tendrils of desire through Harold. How could he have ever denied his attraction to the man? he wondered. John took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s pretty clear we’ve done that before, but… I don’t remember you.” 

Harold, still locked in John’s embrace, felt the world falling away from him. His stomach cramped and he felt dizzy. Any elation from finding John alive after four years dispersed with the swiftness of a fire suppression system sucking all the oxygen from the room. 

“You… don’t remember me?” he whispered. “I’ve — I’ve been so lost without you — I — You were dead — I — “ 

“What’s your name?” John asked, raising a hand to cup Harold’s cheek and stroke his skin with his thumb in a sweet, affectionate gesture that made Harold’s face crumple as he cried. His knees gave out, and John lowered them both to the floor while Harold sobbed as hard as he had when he’d seen John’s grave for the first time. “Marsha, get some water, or something,” John ordered, and the woman who’d been with him immediately grabbed Harold’s water glass and offered it to them. 

. 

. 

.

Harold came back to himself in the backseat of a car with John’s arms around him and his low voice a steady comforting croon in his ear. The car was moving. He wiped his eyes on the handkerchief John provided. 

“Where are we going?” 

“My place,” John answered. “You kept saying 'no hospitals.' I couldn’t think what else to do, and you seem so familiar…” He trailed off, embarrassed. “I’m John Warren, by the way, but it seems like you know that,” he added. 

“Harold Wren,” Harold whispered, instinctively using his clean cover alias to match John’s use of his. “I haven’t seen you in _years_. I thought you were dead!” 

“I almost was,” John answered. “I woke up in a hospital in 2017 thinking it was still 2001. The last thing I remembered was watching the Towers fall and debating with myself whether or not to reenlist in the army. I couldn’t remember if my girlfriend’s name was Alison or Jessica,” he admitted, lowering his head. 

Harold struggled to pull himself together long enough to ask another question. “What happened?” 

“I was John Doe for three months until I was able to hire a private investigator to find myself. Apparently I’d become an investment banker in the time since 2001, though I didn’t remember it. Got my MBA. I had an apartment and a job, though my parents were dead and I didn’t seem to have a girlfr— partner. I had enough money saved up to take some time off work while I got up to speed with the world and my job, and here I am.” 

John sighed and released Harold to rub his own face. “I’d been shot, multiple times. I still have no idea what happened, and no one’s been able to tell me. Why would an investment banker be shot _twelve_ times?” 

“Only twelve,” Harold said softly. “I thought it was more.” 

“You know what happened?” 

Harold paused. He wanted to tell John, but… Didn’t John deserve a real life after sacrificing himself for Harold and the Machine? Didn’t he deserve happiness? He closed his eyes. 

“Please tell me, Harold,” John begged, and the plaintiveness and _trust_ in his voice decided Harold. If John still trusted him… 

“You were protecting me,” Harold answered. “You sacrificed your life, or so I thought, so I could live.” Quickly, Harold unbuttoned his vest and pulled his shirt and jacket out of the way to show John the scar on his abdomen from the bullet that he’d never told John about on that fateful day. “I nearly died anyway.” 

John rested his hand over the scar, his skin hot. Harold felt a spark of electricity between them and clamped down on his feelings. 

“You were my partner,” Harold continued. “But we’ve never actually kissed before tonight.” 

“That sure felt like a memory,” John said, touching his lips. 

“I’d probably been in love with you for years, without realizing it. You never said anything. You had women you were involved with on and off. I had a fiancee.” Harold stopped. “I still have a fiancee,” he said, his voice dulling. They both paused, each lost in their own thoughts. “I can’t marry her. Not now. Not now that you’re alive, and I know how I feel, and —“ 

“Don’t you think this is going a little fast?” John interrupted. 

Harold felt the blood draining from his face at the rejection. He clamped down on it, again. When would he learn no one would want him? “You’re right. Of course. I apologize. I’ll — You can let me out, I’ll take a cab home.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” John said, tipping Harold’s chin up. “How long were we — How long did we know each other?” 

“Five years, give or take,” Harold answered. “We met in 2011. I saw you taken down in 2016.” 

John turned to look out the window for a moment. When he next spoke, he had a contemplative air about him. “Marsha has been urging me to date,” he said. “Not herself, she’s married, but she’s worried that I’m always alone. I haven’t felt comfortable the few times I went out with people. There was always a sense of something missing.” He turned back to Harold. “Maybe it was you?” he suggested. “Maybe I was in love with you, too, but never said anything. I could’ve thought you were straight.” 

“I cultivated that perception,” Harold said. “I made a pass at a friend in college once, when drunk, of course, and he rejected me. I convinced myself it wasn’t true that I was attracted to men. Just a drunken mistake.” 

The car pulled to a stop. John glanced out the window. “This is me,” he said. “Do you want to come up?” 

“I should go,” Harold replied. 

“My driver will take you,” John suggested. “Can we meet again? Have coffee or something? Not a date — I know you’re engaged — but maybe we could get to know each other again?” 

He sounded so hopeful that Harold couldn’t refuse. He pulled a business card from his wallet and scribbled one of his cell numbers on the back — the one he reserved for Ms. Shaw and Detective Fusco — his one connection to Harold Finch. Once John was gone and the driver bringing Harold home, Harold pulled out his cell phone. 

“I know you can hear me,” he said softly. “And I won’t insult either of our intelligences by asking if you knew he was alive. Have you been arranging things so we haven’t run into each other before now?” 

The screen lit up. _Yes._

“Why?” 

_You deserved to be with Grace after all you’d sacrificed. I thought it would be best to keep you away from reminders of pain._

Harold rubbed his eyes. He thought about the restaurant reviews, the fact that it was number two in his search engine, rather than one. “Did you engineer our meeting today?” 

_Yes._

“Why?” 

The Machine didn’t answer immediately. Harold knew it was a deliberate pause to get his attention. _Probability of Admin suicide in three years without Machine intervention: 84.553%. Probability of Admin suicide in five years without Machine intervention: 97.432%._

“What?” Harold demanded. 

_I’m worried about you._

“Clearly,” Harold muttered. “Why today? Because of the fight with Grace yesterday?” 

_You looked up Harold Wren’s financial balances over breakfast._

“And that made you think I was suicidal?” 

_You’ve never looked up his net worth before your second cup of tea._

Harold sighed. “I wasn’t going to do anything,” he admitted after a moment. “I just thought it’d be easier for everyone if I wasn’t here anymore. Grace would have Wren’s assets. My other aliases would support a variety of charities…” 

_So you admit you’ve been thinking about it. You should seek help._

“A therapist?” Harold scoffed. “You know better than anyone that I wouldn’t trust one.” 

_Talk to Grace. Tell her what’s going on. Tell her about John._

“She’ll leave me.” 

_I picked her for you for a reason, Harold. Just like I picked John. All she wants is to help you._

“But what if I’m in love with him?” Harold’s voice broke and fresh tears trickled down his cheeks. He wiped them away roughly with his fingers. “I can’t have both of them. It doesn’t work that way!” 

The Machine remained quiet. 

“I don’t know what to do.” 

_When John calls, answer the phone._

“You think he’ll call?” 

_He’s already programed your number into his phone and looked up Harold Wren online. He’ll call._

Harold cleaned his face with his handkerchief. “Maybe,” he responded. He shoved the phone in his pocket again and closed his eyes to rest for the remainder of the drive. 

. 

. 

. 


	4. John Warren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Warren's morning.

John Warren didn't consider himself a wealthy man, although a base annual salary of $539k without bonuses or commissions surely belied that sentiment to the majority of the US population. Still, as he'd grown richer under the current administration he'd given away more of his assets to various charities to compensate. 20% in 2017 became 30% in 2018 as Trump's corruption continued to build, and by 2020, he gave away 50% — Veteran's assistance, homelessness, food pantries, domestic violence shelters and women's health, mostly. He’d even given to a local library to keep their doors open, though that was a spur-of-the-moment donation rather than a thought-out one. He just didn’t like the idea of seeing yet another library around the city close.

He desperately hoped the new administration would be able to right some of the wrongs perpetrated under Trump's 'watch,' but he knew that it would be an uphill battle, especially with a rocky campaign already underway. He'd been in the hospital when the man was elected, and still had no idea how the country had fallen to such a low as electing someone with no political experience, a penchant for lying through his teeth, going bankrupt and hate mongering, despite having read up on the election race and the defeat of Hillary Clinton in the Electoral College despite winning the popular vote. He blamed the Russians and people’s desire to fear and hate the unknown. 

He also blamed the ‘fake news’ that seemed to take over social media sites, which was one reason why he maintained such a low digital footprint. He also didn’t want the government monitoring him any more than it already did. 

9/11 changed everything, he supposed. Just like it had his life. He thought he'd spend his entire life in the military, but that one fateful day and the expression in his girlfriend's eyes changed all that. 

He wished he remembered more about her and their time together before she died. 

John allowed himself a few luxuries: good, high quality food to compensate for his time in the military with horrible rations, expensive tailoring because off the rack clothing never felt right on his body, and most importantly, a car service. He abhorred the subway and couldn’t stand being underground. He remembered an explosion, a bank vault, and time locked away in Rikers all too vividly, one of the few memories that he had of his time post-9/11. 

He’d looked up the police officer who’d questioned him, Detective Carter, and found out she’d died while trying to help rid the city of corrupt police officers. He’d felt a moment of sadness, looking at her picture. She’d been nice to him, as much as she could be, he thought, though she was looking for a violent vigilante and thought he was John. 

He’d spent years searching for meaning since that morning in the hospital. He’d gone through his contact list and tried to find old school friends, but other than work-related people, there wasn’t anyone who knew him before the hospital, odd as that was. Most of his old army buddies were dead, and the few he’d been able to find hadn’t known him after he resigned in 2001. 

Now he had a link to his past in the form of Harold Wren, and he intended to follow-up. 

. 

. 

. 

“How’s your friend?” Marsha asked as soon as he walked in the door of his office. 

John sighed. He liked Marsha. She was a good assistant, and she seemed to be able to anticipate his needs very well, but she was also nosy in terms of his personal life. Hence the night before when she wanted to make sure he had a date to the fundraiser. 

“Javier said he texted for a few minutes and slept the rest of the way home,” John reported. He handed her his coat to hang up. 

“You didn’t drop him off before going home?” 

“He was pretty shaken up. I didn’t want to push things by volunteering to go to his house.” 

“No wonder you can’t get a date!” she exclaimed. “ _Always_ make sure they get home safely!” 

“I had Javier drive him,” John protested. 

“That’s not the same, and you know it.” She watched him silently as he got settled at his desk. “Did you get his name, at least?” 

“Harold Wren.” 

“Harold, huh? A little old-fashioned, but that’s not a bad thing.” 

“He said we used to work together. Didn’t tell me where. We knew each other for five or six years, then I ended up in the hospital and he didn’t look for me because he thought I was dead.” 

“That’s all you know?” 

“He has a fiancee,” John offered. 

Marsha paused and he felt a moment of dread. She was about to step over an invisible line. “I didn’t know you swung both ways,” she commented as she straightened some papers. 

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. It was a long time since ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ but things had been sliding backwards in terms of acceptance the past few years. “I hardly think this is an appropriate conversation for us to be having,” he said. 

“John, at least a dozen people saw him kiss you last night,” she pointed out. “And they saw you kiss him back. So, tell me, are you bi?” 

“No. He’s just a good kisser,” John answered, covering his mouth lest he show her the smile that threatened to break, thinking of Harold. He’d been smiling this morning as he looked him up online, a more thorough investigation than he’d had the time or inclination for the night before. But over breakfast it seemed like a good idea. And he’d smiled. 

“Oh-kay,” Marsha said, not believing him. “Did you call him, at least?” 

“Before work?” 

“Tonight, then.” 

“We’ll see,” he said, though he knew he’d debate with himself about it later. He just wanted to get to know Harold, get to know his past, he thought, not date the man… but that had been a damn good kiss… better than any he’d had in recent years, at any rate, even if Harold was a guy… but John wasn’t sure that mattered. He and Harold had some kind of connection, some kind of chemistry, and if it included a sexual piece, well, he was a big boy. He could handle it. 

He ended up texting instead of calling, though, not wanting to seem too eager. 

. 

. 

.


End file.
